


Trouble, What Trouble

by temporalDecay



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Affectionate Sex, Comfort Sex, Double Penetration, F/M, Implied Age Difference, Psionic Sex, Quadrantless Sex, Quadrants What Quadrants
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-29
Updated: 2014-07-29
Packaged: 2018-02-10 21:57:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2041692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/temporalDecay/pseuds/temporalDecay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Disciple and Psiioniic are left behind while Signless and Dolorosa run an errand. Disciple is bored, Psiioniic wants to avoid trouble, and it goes from there.</p><p>But hey, at least there are no threshcutioners involved this time around!</p><p>Includes ridiculous amounts of quadrantless love and affection, implied age-difference, and vague references to Before. Pretty much just feel-good, fluffy, kinky smut.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trouble, What Trouble

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ashkatom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashkatom/gifts).



> Gift fic for Ashkatom, who continues to be perfect in pretty much every way.

"...I'm bored," you declare, after perhaps five minutes of nothing but the chipper crackling of the fire. 

With your beloved and his mother gone on a supply run, and Psii doing his best impression of a hooting featherbeast perched atop a boulder, ostensibly keeping watch, it's hard to deny the fact you're so bored you might just cry. You tried to busy yourself with your share of the chores, but now you’re done and the moons are still halfway across the sky. At the sound of your voice, Psii nearly loses his balance, psi crackling around him as he keeps himself from falling face first into the ground. He does that, sometimes. 

He seems to consider your words for a moment, before shrugging – _rude!_ – and going back to staring at the horizon. 

"So?" He asks, though the lisp makes it sound more like _though?_ and you can't help but snicker a little in the back of your throat. 

"Just saying," you offer, shrugging a little yourself, before rolling on the ball of your feet and slowly trying to walk up to him without him noticing, "I'm bored." 

“Well, that's just—" But as he turns around to scoff and be Serious – with a capital! – you grin, literally about an inch from his face. 

Psii shrieks a little, in the back of his throat, flails, loses his balance and falls, just remembering the whole psionic thing when he's but a few centimeters off the ground. He lets himself fall that small distance with a sigh. 

"Just?" You ask nicely, in your nicest tone, even going as far as you make your nice eyes at him. 

"Rosa said to stay out of trouble," he insists, even as you pounce on him to enjoy some cuddles. 

He obliges with another sigh, letting you snuggle up into his chest. He’s nowhere near as good at cuddling as your beloved, but he’s also heartbreakingly earnest about the whole affair, and you can’t in good conscience hold his bony limbs and unforgivingly sharp elbows against him, when he tries so hard. 

"Trouble?" You grin, arching your head back when his claws find the nape of your neck, scratching lightly, because that always feels oh _so_ good. "What trouble?" 

You tilt your head to the side, shifting until you can duck under his hand and then press your lips against his wrist. There are scars there. Ugly scars. Scars from Before. You two share a bond, in the end, the unspoken memories of Before. Before your beloved and his fierce determination and his kind words and his generous love. You both have scars, from Before. His just happen to be physical. But even scars are beautiful, you think, when you use them to compare then and now and realize Before was terrible but Now is _better_. And Tomorrow will be _great_. 

His breath hitches, when your lips press softly against the band of scarred skin around his wrist, but he doesn’t pull away, not even when your kisses become decidedly less chaste. His breathing shifts and turns, and you can’t help but purr in the back of your throat, when he cradles his fingers through your hair with his free hand, ghosting along the edge of a horn. 

"Your answer to everything," he complains, even as he sits up, keeping you in his lap, "is pailing." 

His complaining would be a lot more convincing if you hadn’t just reached out to hold his tiny horns between your fingers and there wasn't a lovely, bright yellow blush all across his face. 

"Well, that's just outright slander, sir," you say, drumming your claws on the thick, dark bands at the base of his horns and feeling him shudder under you. "I never did once bring up pailing, _you_ did!" 

"You said you were bored!" You gasp as you feel a wave of psi wash over you, static leaving your skin tingling pleasantly and your hair slightly bouncier than before. 

You press one last kiss to his wrist and release him, tilting your chin up just because he takes it like a cue to shower you with crackling light once more, and even if pailing hadn’t been in your mind before – it wasn’t! Honest! – now it’s unavoidable. 

"So?" You grin deviously, taking a hand comfortably perched on your hip and pushing it down between your legs. "Still wasn't me who started it." 

"Last time..." Psii mutters, still somewhat sourly, though his fingers, wrapped in psi, rub nicely against the edge of your sheath and the corner of your nook, through the thickness of your clothes. 

"There aren't any fireworks!" You laugh, arching your back to cant your hips more into his hand, and then switch your hands to his big horns, watching him squirm with a grin. "Or threshcutioners for that matter." 

"No trouble!" He tries, one last time, before you tug him in for a kiss. 

"Not one bit," you promise, pressing the words right against his lips. 

You hold his head in your hands, tilting his face up so you can kiss him properly, with all the warmth and the love he deserves. Even now, after all you’ve been through, he melts under your claws, moaning in the back of his throat and offering everything he has for you to take. You made a promise, and so did your beloved, the night you sat by his side as you watched the younger yellowblood writhe in the bedding, fighting off the fever, that you would never take anything he gave you, without giving back twofold. He’s surly and huffy and ridiculous and loyal and kind and you just want to hold him up against you until the scars fade away and the world stops threatening to hurt him. You miss your beloved keenly, in moments like this, because he always knows what to say, to make things alright. Your strength is in your actions, not your words, so with one last thought of him, you press on, determined to let your actions speak for themselves. 

You rub the base of his horns, then follow down the curve of his skull to the nape of his neck, where the muscles are perpetually stuck into a knot of tension and fear that only ever lessens in moments like these. You dig your fingers, minding your claws, and he breaks the kiss to moan into your mouth, shivering. He basks in the touch for a moment, eyes half lidded, before he kisses you back with renewed enthusiasm. The hand between your legs shifts, so that he’s now tracing small, pleasant circles above your sheath and sending a rain of sparks flowing up your spine. You kiss back and and roll your hips against him, purring loudly and petting his back encouragingly. He’s always like this, and it always breaks your heart a little, the way he needs to be coaxed, reminded he can want and touch and _feel_. And then he rushes to comply, excited and scared and you wish your beloved was here, to smile and laugh and help you give him all he needs. 

His fingers are growing bolder, pressing hard against your clothes to try and draw the contours of your swollen sheath and the dip at the entrance of your nook. You can feel the wetness gathering between your legs, the heat steadily growing poignant. His other hand holds onto a breast, crackling red and blue and making your skin break into goosebumps underneath your shirt. You consider it a victory, that he’s so willing to touch and play; that he’s not tentative or unsure or apologetic about letting you love him like this. You remember, the first time you held him like this, that quiet, awed whisper – _I’m allowed to touch?_ – and you tilt his head back and kiss him hard, because the world might have done terrible things to him, but he’s more than the result of all their cruelty. 

“Clothes,” he hisses into your mouth, and every inch of skin tingles with the touch of his powers. “ _Clothes_ , Di, fucking—“ He’s tugging but not really, just clawing helplessly at your clothes, and then he gathers himself and pulls back enough to look at you. “I…” 

And he’s a mixture of wary and annoyed and desperate, that you can’t help but lean in and press a kiss to his nose. He wrinkles it in protest, blushing brighter over it than the fact one of his hands is glistening with the same wetness nested deep between your legs. 

“Just because you’re cute,” you tease, and raise your arms so he can tug the shirt off your body. 

He huffs, trying to scowl and failing miserably, so you take pity on him and press your mouth to his again, in that slow rhythm that makes him stop overthinking things and makes him relax again. One day, you think, he’ll ask without bracing himself for rejection. You pretend you don’t notice he does, hunching back and trying to make himself small and meek, because it’s foreign to everything else he is. It’s something _they_ gave him, along with the scars on his wrists and the reluctance to accept anything that might one day be taken from him. 

One day, you might just convince him that nothing you give him will ever be taken away. 

The rest of your clothes pose a bit more of a problem, because it involves standing up – or trying not to and then deciding standing up and undressing yourself is less of an issue than contorting awkwardly while you wrestle your pants off – and that fleeting moment when you have to stop and let him process and make a choice, before you go on. He stands there, all thin and scarred, weighting all his options as if his bulges aren’t coiling between his legs, just like yours. And then he plops back down on the ground, legs half spread, instead of fishing for his clothes and going off for a walk. He’s done that before, and you try not to be disappointed when it happens. You grin deviously even as he scowls, sniffing disdainfully because somewhere along the line someone told him being dignified was the same as taking himself seriously at all times. 

You pounce, giggling in the back of your throat as your fingers reach out for his sides, rather than the inviting mess of yellow between his legs. He shrieks a laugh when you do and then slaps a hand over his mouth and makes a show to shower you with sparks for it, but you just go on tickling him some more, until he’s laughing too hard to look solemn or sad. 

“The worst,” he wheezes, clutching your back as you press your chest against the curve of his belly and your chin right at the point where his ribs meet under his skin. He presses his legs against your sides, and you can feel his bulges dripping and smearing yellow all over your stomach as he digs his claws into your hair. “You are the _worst_.” 

“You love me,” you say, with absolute certainty, tilting your head back onto his hands. 

And then the joke falls and for a moment he lets you see all those soft, vulnerable bits he tries so hard to hide from everyone else. 

“I do,” he whispers, almost like a vow, as if the enormity of the fact can’t help but humble him a little. 

You smile at him, pleased and kind, leaning in to nuzzle the faint imprint of his ribs that no amount of eating seems to erase completely. 

“I love you too,” you promise, with all the sincerity you can muster, even if you feel, yet again, the empty space where your beloved would go, completing the circle. Then the moment passes and you grin mischievously. “And it’s not my answer to everything,” you add, shuffling a bit on your knees to lower your head to his groin. “But pailing sounds _awesome_ just about now.” 

He has a snarky reply to that – he has a snarky reply to _everything_ , it’s awesome – but you don’t let him verbalize it, because your mouth finds the tip of a bulge and the sound that comes out of his mouth isn’t words. You twine your tongue with it, not really caring about the trail of thick, slick goop sliding down your chin, and pet the other split with your hand. He sits there for a moment, whimpering in the back of his throat and just riding out the sensations you’re giving him, while you pet and suckle at his bulges. And you think to yourself that look suits him so nicely, the glazed-eyed look of someone enjoying themselves too much to care about anything else. He should wear it more often, you think. 

It’s not until you slide your hand down the thicker ridges of his bulge to the base where the splits are fused together, and lower still, to the thin lips of his nook, that he seems to snap out of it enough to retaliate. You have enough presence of mind to pull your mouth away and look away as you clench your teeth, feeling tiny, controlled bursts of energy crackling between your legs, against your nook and the base of your bulge and even at the rim of your wastechute. He ups the intensity just enough to be a tease, and you shudder against him, losing your balance and toppling into his arms with a low groan. 

“ _You_ are the worst,” you pant, almost surprised to find your breathing so out of hand so quickly, pressing a kiss to the fingers absently wiping your face clean. “The absolute wo— _oh_.” The range of his psionics has grown, crawling across your skin and pressing against it more firmly. You’re no stranger to his powers, such an intrinsic part of him, that the disembodied touch feels just reassuring. “More,” you ask, pressing your face against his hand, and shifting your weight on your knees to try and give him more space to maneuver, even if he really doesn’t need it. “Oh, that’s lovely.” 

“You’re lovely,” he quips, wiggling his eyebrows teasingly, but obliging your requests and making you cry out when the shock intensifies enough to make your skin break into goosebumps. His arms wrap around you, pulling you further up against him, and then nudging you to turn around, until your back is nested against his chest and his hands have found yours. “The loveliest.” 

“Flatterer!” You laugh, even as you tilt your head back, because sitting this way, you can see the light arching across your skin, spreading up until it reaches your chest and your grubscars, feeling it tease them as you see it happen. “Still the worst.” 

Fingers entwined, he wraps his arms – and yours – around you, pulling you just a little bit higher, so he can bury his face into your neck. You want to kiss him, but he won’t let you, far too busy distracting you with everything he has. You can feel his bulges writhing and coiling against your thighs, your own slowly tying itself into a knot against your skin; but it fades in comparison to the very real pressure settling against the swollen lips of your nook. 

“You love me,” he says, voice rough and excited, and you laugh in delight, because this is what you want him to be, _always_. Devious and teasing and smug and the absolute worst in all the best ways. He presses a kiss to your cheek. “So there’s that.” 

You jerk in his arms, arching up with a gasp and holding onto his hands hard enough it must hurt, when the light and the little thrilling shocks of his powers start moving _in_. It feels like your blood is about to ignite, rushing at a thunderous pace inside your veins. You feel every muscle in your body tense and then relax in a ripple, heat and pleasure making you moan loudly. It’s nothing like a bulge, pressure just solid enough to make you want to clench down and try to pull it deeper inside you, but not solid enough to get a grip on it. It’s alien and bizarre and you purr contently as it makes the orgasm drag out, genetic material dripping, rather than gushing down the edge of your nook. 

“Of course I do,” you repeat, loose-limbed and pliant, as you feel his bulges start to press up against your entrance, and you find yourself making a low, wanton sound at the prospect. “Who doesn’t?” 

And he laughs, that breathy, quiet laugh of his you think might be his most sincere one, without the posturing and the literal walls keeping him from being himself. It sounds almost as lovely as he feels, spreading you open bit by bit, wounding himself up inside you. You’re relaxed enough that when he reaches the point where the stretch starts to feel intense, you can tilt your hips and breathe deeply. Your body is always a little reluctant to believe it can take him, all of him, all at once. But it’s just a matter of going slow and being calm, and the feeling of him coiled deep inside you, pressing solidly against your muscles until they can’t clench anymore, is intoxicating. You wish your beloved were here, so you could return the favor, because he makes the cutest noises when you do. 

“You’re plotting something,” he muses, tightening his hold on your hands just a little, before pressing a soft kiss to your shoulder. 

You giggle at his suspicious look, so out of place what with the fact he’s halfway inside you and there’s sweat dripping down his neck that you’re solely tempted to reach out and lick off his skin. 

“Just – _ah_ – recalling fond memories,” you say, blinking innocently in a way that never fails to make him snort. 

He buries his face into the crook of your neck and you rub your chin against his head, affectionate and teasing, in between soft gasps and moans, as he works you open to the best of his ability. 

“No trouble, you said,” he mutters, clinging and letting you feel sparks dance across your arms and up your calves, erratic enough you wonder if they’re intentional or not. Somehow the idea of him losing control never really sinks in as something dangerous. Because it’s Psii. He’d never hurt you. “You’re nothing _but_ trouble.” 

You open your mouth to retaliate, but your laughter is cut short when he finally slides in the last stretch, and your entire body throbs with renewed lust as the heat sitting promisingly in your gut. You cry out instead, reflexively trying to clench, and only managing to make your vision swim from overstimulation. He twitches his hips, bit by bit, testing the waters as it were. It feels wonderful, so you tell him so, clutching his hands tightly in your own, not sure what else to do with them. He rolls his hips just a little, shifting his hips and trying to find his rhythm. 

A rocky, low purr echoes in his throat, when he does. His eyes are closed and his chin hooked on your shoulder, and it feels like he’s literally trying to crawl under your skin and hide forever there. You’d let him, if you could. You’d shelter him from everything, if he wanted you to. Most of the time, he’s just happy to fight his demons with you by his side. And it’s enough. It really is. 

You feel him try to lash out inside you, and you make an effort to try and clench. The end result is an adorable choked shriek in the back of his throat, and a puddle of yellow to go with your green. You don’t scream, but it’s a very near thing, and you love every beautiful second of it. 

“I’m trouble you love,” you whisper, unable to avoid sounding just the tiniest bit smug, even as you arch your hips to try and give him leverage to pull himself free of your body. “And trouble that loves you back. So win-win for all.” 

He hooks a leg with one of yours, blanketing your body with his. He snorts – because that’s what he’s absolutely best at, he could compose a language purely out of the varying qualities of his snorts, it’s hilarious – and makes his body the most convincing argument to not move at all. You should get up and go wash yourselves at the stream down the side of the mountain, and clean up the absolute mess you’ve made of camp. And maybe figure out dinner, since your beloved and his mother won’t be back til the next night. 

But it’s a hot summer night, and you’re too tired and too pleasantly exhausted to do anything other than cuddle and drift off into calm sleep. 

  


* * *

  


“Well,” says a voice, amused despite it all, “at least there aren’t any threshcutioners this time around.” 

You find yourself staring at your beloved, sitting by the edge of the cave, politely away from the mess you haven’t yet cleaned. You can feel Psii shake up against you, that moment of frantic thought and near panic as he adjusts and remembers and stops freaking out. 

Then your beloved’s words sink in properly and you feel your face split in half by a bright grin. 

“That’s _exactly_ what I said!” 

Psii groans in despair, because he cannot stop himself, but he doesn’t make a single sound of protest when you tug him along to relocate yourselves in your beloved’s arms. 

Life is _good_. 

**Author's Note:**

> See? _See?_ I told you all I could write a smut fic without it spawning an AU! _I told you so._


End file.
